


lay me down in ash again

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Androids, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Head Injury, Homoerotic Sparring, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Monsters, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, and romantic vibes, canonize that tag you cowards!, horror vibes, i'm a complex person with complex wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: After the bombs fell, the world became a wasteland. The few remaining humans now gather in the ruins of old cities, barely holding off the vicious mutated monsters and murderous androids that roam the land. Geralt is a witcher, a mutant created to protect the humans from these dangers. It's a thankless, lonely existence, until one idiot named Jaskier falls into his life.--“You don’t remember anything?” Geralt double-checked. For a lone human to be alone, no memory… well, it didn’t bode well.“Not a thing. Well, that’s a lie. I know my name, at least. Jaskier, good to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. Geralt just looked at it, then looked up at Jaskier’s face, grinning brightly despite the gravity of the situation. Memory loss, unreasonable behavior—Geralt feared head trauma.Undeterred, Jaskier pulled his hand back. “Anyways, I don’t know what I would have done, had you not come by when you did.”“Died, probably,” Geralt offered drily.“How morbid,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “We’ll get along great.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 60
Kudos: 288





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based very loosely on the fallout franchise, but can stand alone! title from bastille's "when I watch the world burn all I think about is you".
> 
> thanks to [ icedragondreams ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedragondreams/pseuds/icedragondreams) for betaing!

“It looks like there might be a radiation storm on the horizon, folks, so make sure you’re somewhere shielded, underground is always good, and if you’re crossing the wastes, make sure you’ve got good anti-rad gear on. You don’t want to end up an irradiated ghoul! Never a good look. And next up we have the Novigrad News with Piper—”

Geralt clicked the radio off, tired of the incessant chatter. It was occasionally nice to listen to the music they played, something to break up the utter monotony of the wastes, but all that talking was distracting—which was deadly out here. At any second, he could be ambushed by a stray ghoul, or some other horribly mutated monster.

Although maybe that ambush would be welcome, if only to break up the boredom of the endless irradiated sands. He could use a good fight to get his blood pumping.

He sighed and continued on, shielding his face from the glare of the sun. High noon—a good time to travel, when all of the nocturnal beasts were asleep, but it also meant that it was hotter out than a devil’s tit. At least he didn’t have to load up with lead-lined gear, immune to radiation as he was, but the layers of leather armor he wore to protect against the monsters he hunted were still stifling.

He was almost to the ruins of Cintra when he heard it: the baying mutts that roamed this part of the country, punctuated by screams—human. Someone was being attacked.

Geralt fell into a sprint, racing towards the commotion. What he didn’t hear worried him; there were no gunshots, no yelps of pain from the mutts. Whoever the victim was, they were in bad shape without some kind of weapon.

Geralt crested one final hill to see a pack of mutts, as he expected, chasing their victim across the plains. But what struck him as odd was that they were alone, no companions in sight, which was a death sentence in the wastes. Even infant humans knew not to travel alone.

But there was no more time to waste thinking about the direness of the situation. Geralt unshouldered his rifle, taking careful aim. It would be difficult to hit a moving target without hitting the struggling human, but Geralt was a witcher for a reason. One by one, he picked off the mutts, until there was only one left, rapidly gaining on the human’s heels.

He aimed, fired, missed; the human tripped and went flying forward, tumbling head over heels, and the mutt took the opportunity.

Just before slavering jaws closed around the human’s neck, Geralt fired again, this time hitting the mark, and not a moment too soon. It collapsed on top of the human, dead.

Geralt shouldered his rifle and trotted over to the lone human, slowing as he approached. No need to spook him any more than he already was. The human looked up, and Geralt braced himself for more screaming; he got that reaction maybe seventy percent of the time, with the other thirty being a mix of falling into a dead faint and running away. Only very, very rarely did humans look at him and not feel instinctive fear.

This human seemed to be among that minority group. Rather than screaming, or fainting, or running away, he met Geralt’s inhuman eyes and smiled.

“Oh, thank the gods! I don’t know what I would have done without you!” he gasped. “What shall I call you, oh handsome savior?” he asked, standing up and brushing himself off.

“No problem,” Geralt muttered, bemused. “Name’s Geralt. Where’s the rest of your caravan?”

“Caravan? I haven’t got a caravan. It’s just been me for—oh, for _so long._ ”

“Are you an idiot? Everyone knows not to travel without a caravan!” Geralt snapped, utterly stricken by the sheer stupidity of this human. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s dangerous out here. Going alone is asking to be eaten.”

“Well it’s not like I had a choice!” the human yelled, then immediately lowered his voice. Good. Anything louder likely would have drawn unwelcome guests to their area. “Sorry. But I _know_ it’s dangerous. Look how close I came to being eaten by a pack of wild dogs!”

“So then why are you out here?”

“I don’t _want_ to be. I just woke up the other day, no memory at all, all alone in the middle of the fucking wastes,” he huffed.

“You don’t remember anything?” Geralt double-checked. For a lone human to be alone, no memory… well, it didn’t bode well.

“Not a thing. Well, that’s a lie. I know my name, at least. Jaskier, good to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. Geralt just looked at it, then looked up at Jaskier’s face, grinning brightly despite the gravity of the situation. Memory loss, unreasonable behavior—Geralt feared head trauma.

Undeterred, Jaskier pulled his hand back. “Anyways, I don’t know what I would have done, had you not come by when you did.”

“Died, probably,” Geralt offered drily.

“How morbid,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “We’ll get along great.”

“No. I’m leaving now,” Geralt responded, and pushed past him.

“No, wait!” Jaskier cried, running to catch up to him. “You can’t just leave me here!”

“Sure can. Watch.” He didn’t stop walking, but Jaskier was relentless in his pursuit.

“No, I mean, obviously you’re very fast and could probably leave me in the dust—speaking of, would you mind slowing down a little?—but I mean you can’t just abandon me. It’s too dangerous!”

“Not my problem. Already saved your life once. That’s all you’re getting.”

“Wha—Geralt! Come on, I know you’d feel guilty if you left me all alone, and then I died a horribly tragic death, completely preventably.”

Geralt wiggled his hand in a so-so motion.

“Well, then, think about it this way: you saved my life, ergo, I am now your responsibility. It’s entirely your fault that I’m here, and you’re obligated to keep track of me now.” He said this in such a ‘gotcha’ tone that it set Geralt’s teeth on edge. He stopped in his tracks, and Jaskier’s momentum carried him forward to crash into Geralt’s back, and he fell down in the sand with a little “oof!”

Geralt turned around, towering over him, his most thunderous glare in place. “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not my _anything._ Saving your life was an obligation, nothing more, and I have no further obligation. And if you don’t _fuck off,_ I’ll make you wish that I hadn’t saved you,” he snarled.

It was all bluster, of course, but Jaskier didn’t need to know that. Geralt had sworn an oath to protect humans across the Continent, but damn if this one wasn’t getting on his nerves.

For the first time since seeing him up close, Geralt saw a flicker of fear on Jaskier’s face, and had to ruthlessly squash down the sliver of guilt that rose within him at the sight.

“The last thing I want is anyone needing me,” he explained, in a less severe tone.

“Well, I think it’s a bit late for that,” Jaskier replied, standing up and brushing himself off once again. “Listen, this doesn’t have to be a long-term thing. Please. I just need to get to a settlement, to safety, and then I’ll be out of your hair forever,” he pleaded.

Geralt grit his teeth. Despite it all, he _did_ feel bad for the man. And he wasn’t lying; every second spent out here with no protection ran the risk of death ever higher.

With a sigh, he capitulated. “Fine. But only until we reach the nearest settlement, you hear me?” he warned.

“Yes! Oh, thank you! You won’t regret it, I swear,” Jaskier gushed. “I won’t be but silent backup.”

Geralt was already regretting it.

* * *

Geralt took them east for the rest of the day, towards Sodden, the nearest human settlement he knew of. Jaskier talked _nonstop,_ until Geralt growled at him to shut up, unless he wanted to be ghoul food. Even then, the silence only lasted a few minutes before he was chattering away again. Geralt kept as silent as possible in response, unless Jaskier asked a direct question that he couldn’t avoid.

As the sun began to set, they camped underneath a fallen overpass, which provided a little protection from the howling winds that whipped through the wastes at night.

It wasn’t enough to stop Jaskier from shivering, though. Geralt frowned. He forgot how fragile humans were, sometimes.

“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Jaskier. “This should help for now. We can get you some proper gear on the way to Sodden.”

“But that’s your jacket,” Jaskier said, tone unreadable.

“Yeah, and?” Did he not want it because it belonged to a witcher? Geralt had certainly seen people with the same attitude before.

“Won’t you be cold?”

“No. Witcher, remember?” he reminded Jaskier. But it was… _sweet_ , that he was concerned about Geralt.

Jaskier finally accepted the jacket, shrugging it on over the thin shirt he was wearing. And, Geralt noticed with a frown, it was _all_ he was wearing—a thin shirt, pants, and boots that were falling apart at the seams after wandering the wastes alone.

“We’ll get you better gear,” Geralt rumbled, digging through his pack. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any spare jackets, so he would have to go without for now. Which was fine, since the cold didn’t bother him as much, what with the mutations.

“I can’t—I don’t have any way to pay you back. Where would we even find anything out here? There’s nothing for miles.”

Geralt shrugged. “There are caches here and there, small rest stops along the major trade routes. And there are a few ruins that still have pre-war stuff buried, if the scavengers haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Oh.” They sat in silence for a while, which Geralt was content to do.

“It’s so—it’s _awful_ out here. You really live like this? Hopping from town to town, never staying in one place for too long?” Jaskier asked, gesturing to everything. “I just—I’ve only been out here for a week and have already had enough. How do you—how does _anyone_ cope?”

Geralt inclined his head. He’d adjusted, after almost fifty years walking the Path—it was all he’d ever known, in fact—but he knew there were still people who had trouble believing the world had turned out like this. A few of them even remembered the time before the war, and had never quite forgotten what used to be. When Geralt looked around at the ruins of the world, he could almost imagine it—cities full of towering glass skyscrapers, lush green forests with clear rivers running through them, endless highways with gleaming cars speeding past.

“You really have no memory?” Geralt asked. He tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up in a wasteland, no memory, and came up blank. Terrifying, was all he could guess.

“None at all. Completely blank. First thing I remember is waking up a couple weeks ago, not a soul in sight. There were—it was horrible,” he broke off. “I thought I was the only one left, besides all the monsters. And then when I did come across other humans, they shot at me until I ran away. Chased away like a fucking stray dog,” he said bitterly.

Geralt hummed. Trust was all too scarce out in this unforgiving landscape. It didn’t surprise him that Jaskier had been chased off.

“I thought I was going to die,” Jaskier said suddenly, blue eyes bright with feeling, piercing Geralt’s. “I know I already said it, but. Thank you. Truly.”

“It was nothing,” Geralt said, uncomfortable with the level of emotion being displayed. “’S my job.”

“Still.” And they returned to the silence of before. Jaskier lay down, pillowing his head on his hands, but remained awake, staring at Geralt. Geralt tried not to flinch under his gaze.

“You mentioned that you were a witcher, but what does that _mean?”_ Jaskier piped up, after a bit.

“Means I hunt monsters. Protect what’s left of humanity.”

“A friend to humanity. Has a nice ring to it,” Jaskier commented.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Geralt snorted.

“What? Surely you can’t mean—”

“I meant what I said. Humans hire me, but they don’t like me, beyond being a convenient freak. To them, I’m barely better than the monsters I kill.”

“That’s bullshit!” Jaskier yelled indignantly, pushing himself to sitting. “You’ve shown more humanity than any of them, and I’ve known you for all of six hours!”

“It’s the truth,” Geralt said, shrugging. “I’m just as mutated as every other thing that prowls the wastes.”

“Yeah, but you’re _much_ better-looking,” Jaskier argued. “Plus, you haven’t tried to eat me, so that’s a definite point in your favor.”

“Dunno. Might get hungry later,” Geralt said, deadpan.

Jaskier looked offended for all of one second, and then relaxed. “Oh, you’re _joking._ Of course I find the one person in the entire wasteland who thinks morbid humor is a good way to make friends.”

“Don’t push it. We’re not friends.”

“Well, not _yet._ Give me one day, maybe two, and just you watch. I’ll charm the pants off you.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

Jaskier lay back down, but even as he closed his eyes, his face still held a smile.

* * *

Geralt woke Jaskier just before sunrise the next morning, when the world was still hazy with dawn. “Time to move.”

“Ugh. Five more minutes?” Jaskier begged.

“Sure, if you want to be eaten by sandworms looking for breakfast.”

Jaskier scrambled to standing. “I’m up, I’m up!”

Geralt packed up camp while Jaskier ate—dried jerky from Geralt’s pack, washed down with precious purified water, a very limited resource. Geralt himself went without; with two of them traveling together, they needed to preserve their stores until they could reach someplace to restock.

They set out just as the sun peeked over the horizon, sending all the nocturnal beasts scurrying for cover. Geralt set course for the mountains just south of Sodden, where he knew lay an old army bunker full of armor, weapons, and preserved food—providing that nobody else had discovered it since he last stocked up, that was. He was discovering that scavengers were finding his hideaways with more and more frequency, lately.

It was a straight shot across the plains, so the only danger was the aforementioned sandworms. But they were traveling light with only two people, and the vibrations from their footsteps wouldn’t be enough to summon them to the surface.

Unless, of course, one of them insisted on singing as they walked, which then turned into a sort of dance/skip to accompany it.

“Would you _stop that,”_ Geralt growled, after Jaskier flitted around him for the fifth time. “This isn’t the time for games.”

“I disagree. I think this is the perfect opportunity for some much-needed entertainment. You look like you need it, else you’ll have frown lines before you’re forty.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. Witchers didn’t get headaches, but his annoyance at Jaskier had one threatening to pounce. “I’m trying to keep you _safe._ You’re being distracting. Stop making my job harder.”

Jaskier huffed. “Fine, Mr. I-Hate-Fun.”

His silence lasted for all of two minutes, before he started fidgeting, humming little snatches of song underneath his breath. It was still distracting, but not life-threatening, so Geralt let him be.

By the time the mountains grew large on the horizon, Geralt could have wept with relief. He picked up the pace, eager to get inside the bunker, where he could let down his guard for the first time in weeks.

They were almost to the base of the mountain when he heard it—a deep growl filling the air, hair-raising and horrific. _Fuck._

“Jaskier, run!” he shouted, pushing him towards the bunker doors and pulling out his rifle in one swift motion. “I’ll hold it off.”

“No!” Jaskier screeched, fighting against Geralt’s shove. “Not without you!”

“I’ll be _fine—_ go!”

And then it was upon them—a howler, a hulking, perverse imitation of a human body, with rot-black spikes running down its spine to the very end of its trunk-like tail. Its hide was covered in thick, leathery scales, almost draconic in nature. Its teeth dripped with viscous saliva, its horns were sharpened to a deadly point, and its claws tore up the earth as it barreled straight towards them.

Geralt kept his finger on the trigger, waiting for the perfect shot. Fire, miss, reload; fire, hit—it stumbled—Geralt had caught it in the foreleg—reload, _fuck,_ taking too long, pull the gun back up and shoot blindly—

 _Crack!_ The howler stumbled to the side, diverted from its course. Jaskier stood in front of Geralt, a baseball bat at the ready—must have gotten it inside the bunker—and winding up for another strike to the creature’s skull.

Had he less survival skills, Geralt would have stood in shock, dumbfounded by Jaskier’s sudden show of strength, but he was a witcher, better trained than that. He shoved the last bullet into the chamber and fired, catching the beast right in the eye socket. Gore exploded outward, bathing them in hot, fresh blood, and the howler collapsed at their feet, dead.

“That… was… _disgusting!_ ” Jaskier yelled, sounding simultaneously enthused and appalled. “Did you see that? It fucking _exploded!”_

“They do that,” Geralt said, swiping his hands across his face to rid it of the worst of the blood. “Howler. Hit it in the eye, and the pressure in the brain becomes too much. Only weak spot they have.”

“That was an _incredible_ shot. One in a million. And did you see me? I fucking—with a bat—just, _wham!”_ He was shouting, shaking with adrenaline.

“Good shot,” he praised, and watched as Jaskier's entire face lit up. “Now come on. Inside.” He steered Jaskier towards the heavy metal doors, which stood open from where Jaskier had wrenched them open to grab a weapon. He placed the baseball bat back on the shelf where he’d found it, then took a stumbling step backwards.

“Right. Good. I think—I think I need to sit down,” he breathed, then plopped down right there. Shock, Geralt guessed, or the adrenaline of the fight wearing off.

While he sat there and shook, Geralt took the time to pull the heavy doors closed, plunging them into darkness, but cast Igni and held it in his hand while he looked for something to burn.

Luckily there were plenty of old boxes and papers littering the bunker floor, a remnant of a bureaucracy of ages past. In short order he had a roaring fire going, and gently tugged Jaskier closer to it. He was mostly unresponsive, but went willingly enough, and some time spent sitting by the fire seemed to bring him back to himself as he warmed up.

“Here,” Geralt said, pulling a can of food—creamed corn, yuck—off the shelves and handing it to Jaskier. “Eat. It’ll help your stomach settle.”

They both ate ravenously, even indulging in a second can each, a frivolity that Geralt allowed after the near-death experience they’d had.

And there was pure, clean water that came out of the pipes, so they drank their fill, and then washed off the worst of the gore. Geralt’s jacket was a total loss, and Jaskier apologized profusely, but it wasn’t as if Geralt’s profession was very conducive to getting attached to articles of clothing. “We’ll go digging in the storage room later. There’s plenty of gear to choose from, all from before the war.”

Once they’d cleaned up and dried off in front of the fire, Geralt grabbed an old lantern to illuminate the long corridors towards the storage room. Jaskier grabbed his bat for protection, which, if it made him feel safer, then more power to him. He jumped at every little sound, but nothing came skittering towards them out of the dark, thankfully.

Geralt tugged open another set of heavy doors to reveal the storage room, and it was like watching a kid on his birthday as Jaskier stepped into the room. Geralt sedately gathered rations and water, while Jaskier was a whirl of motion around the room.

“Geralt, look! It fits so well!” he shouted, twirling to show off the outfit he’d gathered together. Geralt had to admit he looked good for having cobbled it together—he wore a fitted blue shirt underneath a thick leather jacket, and had replaced his worn old boots with sturdy, comfortable combat boots that would last ages if he was careful.

“Hmm. Need armor,” Geralt responded.

Jaskier frowned. “After I spent so long picking out the perfect clothes, now you want me to ruin it with armor on top?” But he acquiesced to wearing the gloves, elbow- and knee pads, and chest plate Geralt picked out for him.

“I guess it doesn’t ruin the look too much,” he said brightly, examining himself in the small bathroom mirror around the corner.

“And it won’t get your guts ripped out as soon as you set one foot out there,” Geralt said, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.

“Always something to hope for,” Jaskier replied, nodding sagely. “Now, tell me there’s somewhere to sleep in here that isn’t cold, hard dirt?”

Geralt nodded and led him back to the entrance, where he put out the fire, and then to a room off to the side with a camp bed in the corner.

“Only one bed?” Jaskier asked, a strange quirk to his lips.

“I’ll take the floor,” Geralt grunted. He was long since used to sleeping rough, and as long as it was vaguely horizontal and not actively trying to kill him, he’d sleep on it.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor after everything.” Geralt looked at him suspiciously. He wouldn’t have expected Jaskier to volunteer to sleep on the floor… “We can share!” Jaskier continued brightly.

“Share? Jaskier, that bed barely fits one.”

Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll make it work.”

Which was how they found themselves squished together, barely an inch between them. It was fine, they were fine, it worked, until it didn’t, when Jaskier kept starting awake, on the verge of falling off the edge.

After the fifth time he woke Geralt doing so, he growled and shot an arm out to cage him in, pulling his back flush against his chest. He was warm to the touch, radiating heat, and Geralt guiltily soaked it in. “There. Now sleep,” he ordered, and felt Jaskier slowly relax into the embrace.

It was one of the best nights Geralt had ever had.

* * *

Fully stocked up, they headed out in the morning. Neither said anything about the bedsharing last night, which frankly, Geralt was happy to never talk about again.

So it was fine, good, even, for the next leg of their journey. Jaskier was quieter, more subdued, although no less cheery than before. He took to humming quietly as they walked, new songs, which Geralt hadn’t heard on the radio before.

“Where’d you learn that one?” he surprised himself by asking, a couple of days into the trip.

“Hmm? Oh, I made it up,” Jaskier said offhandedly. “Do you like it?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Oh, come on! You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

“New is nice,” Geralt replied. “The radio gets boring after a while.”

Jaskier beamed for the rest of the day.

* * *

Finally, on the fourth day of their travels, Sodden came into view on the horizon. “Civilization! Oh, thank the gods!” Jaskier shouted, breaking into a run. Geralt rolled his eyes, but ran after him, delighting in the way the wind whipped at his hair, the feeling of his feet falling fast against the hard-packed earth. They didn’t even have to worry about sandworms in this part of the country.

As they approached, something in the back of his mind stirred, some instinct that whispered _danger._ He slowed, tapping into his enhanced senses, searching for signs of trouble. Jaskier, noticing he’d fallen behind, slowed to a stop as well. “What is it?” he asked.

“Danger. I smell smoke,” Geralt said shortly, mind still racing to piece together the clues his senses were receiving. The smell of smoke, the strange quietness, a very faint hum underlying everything…

“We have to leave. Now,” Geralt ordered, immediately grabbing Jaskier by the arm and hurrying him away.

“What? Why? We just got here!” Jaskier complained, dragging his feet a little. “Geralt, it’s a settlement! A human settlement! You know, the thing I’ve been frantically searching for for weeks now?”

“That’s not a human settlement anymore. They’re all dead,” Geralt explained tersely.

“Wh— _how?_ How do you know?”

Once they’d gotten out of sight, crouching behind a crumbling old building, Geralt ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “One: not enough noise. A settlement that big should have children, laughter, work sounds, anything to show signs of living. There was nothing. Two, smoke—a little bit is fine, but that was too much. A fire that big burns up anything you throw on it. Including bodies.” Jaskier looked queasy by this point, but Geralt continued. “And three, the sound of electricity. I know Sodden, and they don’t have anywhere near that kind of technology to generate that much power. But the White Flame does.”

“The White Flame?”

“An android organization, based in what used to be the Nilfgaardian Empire. Before the war, humans created them in an attempt to mimic human life. And they succeeded, and then took it too far. Androids are smarter than humans, faster, stronger.”

“But what do they want? Why—why massacre an entire settlement?” Jaskier whispered, horror plain on his features. Geralt had forgotten that he was new to all of this, that he hadn’t grown up on ghost stories of the White Flame infiltrating homes and stealing people away in the night, like most children of the wastes had.

“They believe that they’re _superior._ That they’re doing humankind a favor by putting them out of their misery, by creating a world where only the fittest survive.”

“That’s _horrible.”_

“That’s the White Flame. We’re lucky it’s not third generation androids in there. We probably would have walked right in, like lambs to the slaughter.”

“Why? What’s third generation mean?”

“They’re the most advanced androids. Earlier generations, you can tell they aren’t human—their eyes are too glassy, their movement too robotic. But third gen androids can seamlessly pass as human. Synthetic heartbeat instead of electric hum, fluid movements, realistic features,” Geralt explained.

“But then—how do you know?” Jaskier asked, a bit frantically. “Anyone could be an android!”

“You don’t, not until either they or you are dead.”

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath, and it was silent for a moment as he digested the information. “Right. That’s horrifying.” Then his features broke out into a wan smile. “How do I know you aren’t secretly an android?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Do I look human?” Geralt responded. It was a valid point—as far as anyone knew, androids only imitated humans, not witchers. Jaskier looked him up and down, taking in the white hair, the cat’s eyes, the unsurvivable scars.

“Suppose not,” he finally said, smiling more genuinely now. “But how do you know who you can trust?”

Geralt considered this. “Well, I don’t usually have to worry about it, because their programming only cares about eliminating humans, not witchers. Guess we’re still useful.”

“Guess so,” Jaskier echoed.

“But I usually go with my gut instincts. They haven’t failed me yet,” Geralt added on.

“Hmm, well, lucky for me, then, that your gut instincts decided to trust me.”

“Hmm. Lucky indeed.”

* * *

They retreated from Sodden, then, skirting the new android colony to continue north, on towards Vizima. There were no more comfortable bunkers along the way, unfortunately, which meant many a night spent staking out a camping spot, some more dangerous than others. Unfortunately, the quickest route there went straight through the Brokilon Wilds, one of the most treacherous areas in the country.

Geralt stopped them for the night just before they entered Brokilon, camping on the very edge of the forest. “We stop here for tonight.”

“But it’s still early!” Jaskier protested.

Geralt shook his head. “I don’t want to risk entering just before dark.”

“Why? What happens when it gets dark?” Jaskier asked.

“Nothing good. We’ll already have to spend one night in there. I don’t want to tempt fate by drawing it out any more than I have to.”

“Fair enough. And I suppose it’ll be nice to have a bit of a rest, a lazy afternoon before our arduous trek. I rather fancy a nap, in fact.” And he lay down on a sparse bit of crabgrass, looking perfectly content, pillowing his head on his arms.

Until Geralt nudged him with his foot.

“Hey!”

“I want to use this time to teach you some survival skills. You’ve been lucky so far, but you won’t always have me around,” Geralt said, ignoring the weird feeling that arose in him at the reminder. He’d gotten attached, that was all. Foolish.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look at how handy I am with my bat,” Jaskier said indignantly, but rose anyway, albeit reluctantly.

“You got one lucky hit off.”

“Yeah, but I killed it, didn’t I?”

“No, my bullet in its brain killed it.”

“Well, I still helped,” Jaskier argued, but then sighed. “Fine. What’s the first lesson, oh masterful witcher?”

The first lesson was self-defense; Geralt taught him ways to get out of a human’s hold, be it around the neck, wrists, chests, et cetera. He was breathing hard by the end of the lesson, but he had almost managed to break Geralt’s hold a couple of times, which was impressive by itself, but more than necessary against regular human strength.

“Good,” Geralt praised him, as he twisted out of Geralt’s grip and aimed a strike towards his solar plexus. Geralt caught his hand, and the two of them stood chest-to-chest, panting in the dimming sunlight.

Jaskier licked his lips, staring into Geralt’s eyes, and for a moment he was lost in those endless blue depths. _I could lean forward and kiss him,_ some nonsensical thought inside his brain said.

And then the moment broke, and Geralt let go of Jaskier’s hand as if burned. “Hmm. That’s enough,” he said, and retreated to clean his gun and mend his armor, any busy work that would keep his eyes from straying back to Jaskier’s pink-cheeked face and plump lips.

When it got too dark to see what he was doing anymore, even with his enhanced vision, Geralt put his gear away and lay down to rest. He could hear Jaskier’s faint snores only a short distance away, but they weren’t what was keeping him up; no, that would be the thoughts racing around his head, thoughts of Jaskier.

Why did he trust him so implicitly, even just minutes after meeting? _Well, he’s obviously harmless,_ Geralt thought to himself, but then reconsidered. Hadn’t Jaskier shown that he was at least semi-competent? He was brave, certainly, rushing at a howler armed only with a bat, and after only one afternoon of teaching, he was able to somewhat reliably escape Geralt’s hold.

So it wasn’t that. No, it was something in his gut that told him he could trust Jaskier, and Geralt hated that he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was making him feel this way.

Was it simply loneliness? Had he been roaming the wastes alone for too long, shunned at every settlement, and he was simply starved for company, for one friendly face? Perhaps. But more than that, Geralt did find himself appreciating Jaskier simply for who he was—his endless optimism, his creativity, his wit.

 _But why did I want to kiss him?_ he wondered. That was something new entirely. Never in his entire forty-some years of life as a witcher had he felt the urge that strongly. Granted, it was hard to when most everyone he met hated him on sight, but still. Jaskier seemed… different, new.

 _I would be sad if he died,_ he thought suddenly, the morbidity striking him out of nowhere. Geralt, long since accustomed to the harshness of the wastes, was in the habit of not getting too attached—death could spring at any moment. But Jaskier had somehow managed to sneak past all of his defenses, insinuating himself firmly in Geralt’s heart. It’d been a long time since he cared this much about anyone, but he found that he didn’t hate it.

* * *

Entering Brokilon was an exercise in diligence. From the moment they set foot in its shadowy depths, Geralt was on high alert, finger on a hair trigger. Jaskier was uncharacteristically quiet, not even daring to hum as they picked their way along the muddy paths. At every sound, every sudden gust of wind, every creaking hollow tree, every skittering of tiny claws, he jumped, anxiety radiating off him in a way that was palpable. It was almost enough to be distracting, but Geralt couldn’t fault him; he himself was on edge, too.

Even when the sun was at its highest point, the gloom never lightened past a murky twilight. There was one heart-pounding moment when a rabid fox burst onto the path in front of them, both heads snapping their drooling jaws, but Geralt was quick on the draw and killed it easily.

That didn’t stop Jaskier from clinging to him for the rest of the day, though.

When they bedded down for the night, Geralt didn’t say anything when Jaskier huddled closer to him than normal, citing freezing temperatures. He put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and meditated for the rest of the night.

The sun rose late, as if it dreaded facing the next day, too. Jaskier woke from a light sleep with dark bags under his eyes, and Geralt was sure that he looked similarly terrible. He would be glad once this trial was over.

“Geralt? How much longer?” Jaskier whispered, sometime around midday.

“Soon,” Geralt promised him; by his reckoning, they would be out of the cursed forest in a couple of hours at most.

“Good. No offense, but this place is even creepier than you.”

They continued on, stopping only briefly for a small meal, and eventually the path led them to the foot of a cave, sightless depths beckoning. Jaskier gulped.

“Don’t tell me we have to go through there,” he pleaded. Geralt nodded; Jaskier sighed. “Lead the way, then,” he said, shouldering his bat higher.

Even with his witcher sight, it was near-impossible to see. Jaskier was forced to keep a hand on Geralt’s upper arm to be led, stumbling every other step. His breath came fast, in short, dry little pants, eyes blinking owlishly in the pitch black.

“Almost there, Jask,” Geralt said, trying to soothe his nerves somewhat.

“Yup, great,” he replied tightly. “As long as we don’t fall down a chasm, or get attacked by a cave monster, or—” He broke off, boots slipping on scree, and Geralt had to grab the back of his jacket to hoist him upright again.

But the damage was done; the scree clattered down the incline, dislodging loose rocks as it went, and Geralt heard a hiss rise from the depths.

 _“Fuck,”_ he snarled, drawing his machete knife. A gun would do no good in close quarters like this. “Get behind me,” he ordered Jaskier, “and stay there. Hug the wall. If I say run, you run.”

His reply was lost in the thunder of noise that arose from beneath them; eight massive, hairy legs hoisted themselves up onto the ledge, followed by a pinched body and a head bearing eight blinking ruby eyes. A venomous arachnomorph.

“Ugly bastard,” Geralt growled, launching himself at it. The legs were its weak points; if he could ground it, prevent it from scuttling around too fast to follow, he could easily win this fight.

That was a big _if,_ though. It screeched, spitting poison at him, and he dodged to the side, swinging the machete, and missed. It retaliated, striking out with its pincers, and the two of them fell into a dance of sorts, trading blows. It was a very precise dance; one wrong step could send either of them hurtling over the edge and into the inky darkness below.

The arachnomorph had the advantage, though; it didn’t have to keep Jaskier safe. Geralt’s attention was constantly split, both looking for an opening to strike and keeping an eye out to make sure the arachnomorph didn’t get too close to Jaskier. It didn’t seem to have noticed him yet, and Geralt wanted to keep it that way.

He struck out again, and connected, this time; one leg went flying, dripping ichor as it went. One down, seven to go.

The arachnomorph stumbled and crashed into the wall, narrowly missing where Jaskier stood, clinging to the wall. He let out a small _eep!_ and that was it; the arachnomorph wheeled on him, attracted to the sound of fresh prey, and lunged.

Geralt did the same; he grabbed Jaskier by the arm and yanked him to the side heedless of where he landed, as long as it wasn’t the immediate danger of being eaten. Jaskier out of the way, Geralt threw himself in between him and the arachnomorph, and thrust his machete into its pincers.

His aim was true, and his strength drove the blade deep inside the monster’s skull. It screeched again, a horrible, pitiful, dying sound. Venom leaked out around his gloved wrist, and he withdrew the machete with a grunt.

The arachnomorph collapsed at his feet, dead. But there wasn’t the usual rush of pride he felt at a job well done—only adrenaline racing through his veins, and residual fear, fear for Jaskier.

Speaking of the human, Geralt turned around to check for any injuries. What he saw stopped his heart for a minute.

Jaskier lay crumpled on the ledge, unmoving. Geralt rushed over to him, carefully checking for any spinal injuries before turning him gently over. He was like a limp doll in Geralt’s careful grip, unresponding, and Geralt swore when he saw a trickle of something dark at his hairline. Geralt inhaled sharply—the air smelled of blood, overly metallic and cloying.

“Jaskier,” he said, shaking him a little, but received no response, not even a hitching of breath or a flutter of eyelashes. “Fuck.”

Well, first things first, he needed to get them out of this cursed fucking cave. He gathered Jaskier into his arms, tucking his head into the curve of his shoulder, careful not to jostle him any more than necessary.

Then he bent down to retrieve his machete from where he’d dropped it, shoving it into the strap on his pack, and he was off, navigating through the cave in a race against time. With every second that passed, he grew more and more aware of Jaskier’s blood soaking through his clothes. The scent was sure to attract predators if he didn’t hurry.

Finally, _finally,_ he saw light in the distance, and picked up his pace, though he was still endlessly careful with the fragile human in his arms.

He burst out of the cave into bright afternoon sunlight, finally free of Brokilon’s shadowy depths, and immediately knelt to place Jaskier tenderly on a patch of mossy ground. “C’mon, Jaskier, wake up,” he muttered under his breath, fingers questing carefully along the edges of the wound on his head.

The bleeding had slowed somewhat, but could still stand to be cleaned and bandaged. They didn’t exactly have a surplus of clean water at hand, but he absolutely couldn’t let it get infected. He rinsed it out, cursing when it started bleeding anew, and had to sit there, tense, as he held scraps of fabric over it to staunch the bleeding. Afterwards, he wrapped it up, to be completely sure it would heal right.

What was more worrying, however, was the fact that he hadn’t woken up yet. It had been maybe twenty minutes; he was starting to fear brain damage.

 _Just leave him here,_ whispered a tiny voice in the back of his head. _You’re only putting yourself in danger, staying with him. You got attached, and look what happened._

 _Shut up,_ he growled back at it. He would _not_ leave Jaskier here, undefended. It may have been a moot point—for all Geralt knew, he was already dead, or as good as. But it was his fault Jaskier had gotten hurt, his path that had put him in danger in the first place, his hands that had yanked Jaskier away from danger only to directly injure him himself moments later.

He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ just leave him all alone. He would sit vigil through the night with him, and if he hadn’t woken up by then, Geralt would put him out of his misery, and give him the honor of a grave, at least.

It was the least he could do for someone he’d pledged to protect.

* * *

The sun fell lower in the sky, and then set. Geralt forced himself to eat something, even though it tasted like ash. He returned to his silent vigil afterwards, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest, hypnotizing in its regularity.

And through the night, one thought kept beating around his mind, keeping tempo like a drum: _Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

No creatures of the night dared to come near them, and for that, Geralt was both grateful and angry. It meant he focused all of his attention on watching over Jaskier, a blessing and a curse in itself, but also, he really felt like killing something right about now.

His spirits spiraled lower and lower as the night dragged on, and he mentally prepared himself for the worst. The weak light of the half-moon reflecting off of his pale skin made him look washed out and pale—bloodless, lifeless.

And then he saw: Jaskier shifted, ever so slightly, head tilting towards where Geralt kneeled next to him, eyelashes fluttering, then blinking open. Jaskier groaned, the sound low and pained, making Geralt’s heart clench.

“Jaskier, you’re awake,” he said, voice full of relief. “Can you hear me?”

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, squinting, though whether it was from pain or to see better in the near-total darkness, Geralt didn’t know.

“I’m here. You knocked your head in the cave,” he explained, then internally winced. _I knocked your head._

“Ugh. Explains why it feels like I’ve been trampled,” Jaskier groaned, trying to sit up.

“I know it hurts, but how else do you feel? Any nausea, dizziness?”

Jaskier rubbed his temples. “Head’s throbbing, but no, I think I’m fine.”

“No concussion, then.” _I was worried,_ he didn’t say, because it made his stomach swoop to think about admitting it. _Don’t get attached,_ he reminded himself. Best to stay distant from now on. “You’ve been out for hours.”

“Well, yes, I can see that,” Jaskier said, squinting up at the moon. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Couple hours to sunrise, maybe. You should get more rest. Head injuries are serious business.” Geralt was surprised at how seemingly fine Jaskier was—a knock to the head like that could have been deadly. 

Jaskier shrugged. “Not really tired.” He scooted closer to Geralt, until he was a hair’s breadth from brushing shoulders with him. “Thank you, by the way. You’ve saved my life three times over, now.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “This time doesn’t count.”

“Oh? And why not? I doubt it was a kindly passerby who took the time to drag me out of that cave and tenderly bind my wounds.”

“No, it’s not that. It was my fault—”

“Like hell it was!” Jaskier cut him off. “What, were you to blame for the giant spider that attacked? Nope, if anything, it’s my fault, for making too much noise in the first place. I’m lucky I escaped with only a bump on the head.”

“No, I never should have led us into that cave in the first place—”

“Geralt. Look at me. Was there any reasonable alternative?” Geralt shook his head. “Okay. Was it you who killed the spider?” A nod. “And was it you who saved my skin again?”

“No, it’s different, I hurt you—”

Jaskier placed a finger on Geralt’s lips, and he was so stunned by the audacity he could only blink.

“If it isn’t my fault for attracting the damn thing, then it isn’t your fault that I got hurt. Like I said, I’m lucky that this was the worst of it. Had you not gotten me out of the way, I’d have ended up as spider food.”

Jaskier finished, and looked at Geralt expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, even though he hadn’t removed his hand from Geralt’s mouth. Geralt hesitantly nodded, and Jaskier broke out into a smile.

“Good, that’s settled, then. Now, I don’t think I can sleep, so you can pass the time by telling me about the fight. I could hardly see anything in there,” Jaskier said, leaning to the side to brush his shoulder against Geralt’s, and then tilting his head down to rest on it.

Geralt knew he should shake him off, should demand that he rest, should stop before he got in too deep with this human who had already wormed his way into Geralt’s heart.

But he was weak, and wanting, and so desperate for a reassurance after the scare today that Jaskier was here, was alive, would be fine. So he let him rest, and he filled the air narrating what the arachnomorph looked like, how it fought, how Geralt had countered, and the moon slowly set.

* * *

They left Brokilon and its horrors behind them gladly. Jaskier, despite the knock to the head, was as cheerful as ever, though Geralt didn’t drive them quite so hard, wanting to be sure that Jaskier had enough time and rest to heal properly, and that there would be no lingering effects. He seemed to appreciate it, at least, thanking Geralt for even small actions, heaping praise upon him at the slightest provocation.

It was new, and slightly uncomfortable, but not necessarily unwelcome. It wasn’t often anyone thanked Geralt for anything, let alone simple acts, and to his chagrin he found himself anticipating Jaskier’s little offhanded comments.

It was about halfway through their journey that they came upon the caravan. Jaskier, actually, had spotted it first, shielding his eyes from the sun and pointing into the distance at it, just tiny specks on the horizon, but unmistakably a large group, moving slowly.

They gained on them over the course of the day, the blurry figures resolving themselves into humans and pack animals pulling loaded carts, and just as the sun was starting to sink below the horizon, they caught up.

The caravan guards were instantly on alert, aiming weapons at them, which Geralt understood. Strangers, especially unaccompanied as they were, were almost always bad news in the wastes.

“Stop right there!” shouted one of them, sporting a gray, bushy beard and hair pulled back into a bun.

“We mean no harm,” assured Geralt, raising his hands in surrender, and nudging Jaskier to do the same. “We’re travelers as well, just looking to spend the night with friendly faces.”

“Look at him,” whispered one of the other guards to the bearded guard. “He’s a witcher.”

“Hmm, indeed,” replied the bearded guard, lowering his weapon, though he didn’t put it away entirely. “Well then, witcher, you’re welcome to spend the night camping with us, though you’ll get no supplies here, and you must move on by morning. Witchers bring trouble, and we want no part in it.”

Jaskier looked outraged, and just as he opened his mouth to speak—something that would inevitably land them in hot water, as he rarely thought before he spoke—Geralt interjected. “Those are fair terms. Where can we set up for the night?”

Jaskier glared at him, but kept his mouth shut. The bearded guard—who introduced himself as Mousesack, a rather unfortunate name—directed them to the edges of the camp, outside of the protective ring the parked carts and tied pack animals made, but still within range of the bonfire’s light.

They were even allowed to heat their own food over the fire, making for a nice meal, instead of the usual forcing themselves to eat whatever chewy foodstuffs came out of the can cold.

“How come they can build a fire when we never could?” Jaskier asked as they ate. “Won’t it attract, I don’t know, ghouls, howlers, something?”

“Not with this many people. There’s safety in numbers; monsters know better than to mess with a fully armed caravan, and those that don’t are easily taken down.”

Jaskier looked envious, for Geralt had never allowed a fire when it was just the two of them, except for back in the safety of the Cintran bunker.

It would be better for him to join the caravan, Geralt thought; it would be slower, but infinitely safer, with more than just a single, solitary witcher to protect him, and he would be able to cook his food every night, and he would have other people to talk to, humans like him, instead of only a mutant freak with bad social skills.

Geralt turned it over in his mind, listening to the laughter and easy conversations flowing out of the people around them, knowing that he couldn’t give Jaskier this.

“What’s on your mind?” Jaskier asked, bumping his shoulder. “You’ve got your thinking face on.”

“Nothing,” Geralt muttered.

“Oh, come on. Obviously something’s bothering you. Is it—is there danger?” he asked, suddenly looking nervous.

Geralt sighed. “No, it’s perfectly safe. I’m the most dangerous thing here,” he said gruffly, haunted by the image of Jaskier slumped on that cave floor, hurt by his hand. “You’d be much better off with them than with me.”

Jaskier snorted. “Nice one.”

“It’s true,” Geralt growled. “They wouldn’t hurt you, not even accidentally.”

“Geralt, I’m _fine,”_ Jaskier said, placing a reassuring hand on his arm, but Geralt shrugged it off. Jaskier withdrew, a hurt expression on his face, and Geralt wanted nothing more than to take it back, but he had to remain firm.

“You’re not _fine._ You almost died!”

“And we’ve been through this already! It wasn’t your fault. Why are you bringing it up again now?” Jaskier demanded.

“You should ask to join the caravan. You’re human, they’d gladly take you, and you could settle anywhere you wanted.” Even as he spoke them, he ignored how the words tore his heart to shreds, how it pained something deep inside him to imagine never seeing Jaskier again. But that had always been the plan, from the very beginning.

“I thought we had a deal,” Jaskier returned angrily, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t just back out of it like this.”

“I already failed you once. I can’t protect you anymore.”

“Oh, for—stop saying it was your fault! What’s gotten into you?!” Jaskier shouted, drawing stares from the caravan members around them, but he didn’t seem to care.

“I’ve finally come to my senses, that’s what,” Geralt snapped back, hating every second of it. He hadn’t wanted to turn it into an argument. Surely now Jaskier would see what kind of monster Geralt really was.

“Sounds more like you’ve lost them, to me,” Jaskier retorted. “Unless—Geralt, is this your way of trying to get rid of me?”

It was such an abrupt change of demeanor it gave Geralt whiplash. Jaskier had gone from closed off, angry, disbelieving, to frighteningly vulnerable and unsteady. A small furrow creased his brow, and as Geralt watched, it grew, his eyes starting to gather a foreboding glassy sheen.

“Is that it? Am I finally too much for you?” Geralt didn’t answer, the angry words that had been on the tip of his tongue abandoning him, and Jaskier only grew more agitated. “I knew it. I knew it couldn’t last, knew I was nothing more than a—a _burden_ to you. Stupid…”

 _No, that isn’t it at all, it’s me who’s the problem,_ Geralt wanted to say, wanted to shout. He wanted to leap up and engulf Jaskier in a hug, wipe the almost-tears from his eyes, reassure him that Geralt cared about him, far more than he should.

He wanted to hold Jaskier tight and never let go, but it wasn’t to be, couldn’t be, because Geralt was only ever danger, only ever ended up hurting those close to him.

But he didn’t say any of it, only sat there and stared stonily, hating the way he couldn’t do anything but watch as Jaskier turned away, shoulders hitching with unsteady breaths, and walked away. It was for the best, Geralt knew, but why did it make him feel so empty inside, even knowing that he would be safe now?

He sat for a long time after that, until the sounds of the camp gradually died down, until the fire burned down to embers, until the only sound Geralt heard was the slow, agonizing shattering of his heart.

* * *

Geralt didn’t think he would sleep, but apparently he did end up catching a few hours, because he woke to the sound of Jaskier conversing with Mousesack.

“I’m willing to work, whatever you need. Please, I won’t even take any supplies, and I’m pretty handy with a weapon—well, close range, at least—and I can—”

“Slow down there, kid.”

“Sorry. I just—I really need safe passage. Please.” He sounded to be almost in tears again, and Geralt’s stomach clenched at the memory of the night before.

“What about your witcher?” Mousesack asked.

“He’s—ah—we’ve decided to go our separate ways.”

Geralt couldn’t see Mousesack’s face from where he was lying, but he could imagine it from his reply. “Why do I not believe you?”

“Alright, that’s not exactly what happened, but regardless, I am very much in need of protection out here. Would you leave a fellow human out to die?”

“I might if he made a habit of associating with witchers, and of lying,” Mousesack said sternly. “I’m sorry, but you’re a risk I’m not willing to take. I owe it to these people to keep them safe, first and foremost.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Jaskier spoke, oh so quietly. “I understand.”

Geralt heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He quickly closed his eyes, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. Even blind, he would know Jaskier's footsteps, though, bouncy but sure-footed. There was a distinct lack of bounce right now.

Geralt kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, as Jaskier rummaged around in his pack as quietly as he could. He told himself he didn’t want to embarrass Jaskier in a vulnerable moment, but maybe it was that he didn’t want to face him, didn’t want to confront his shame and regret. Easier to stay silent.

It became infinitely harder when he heard a sniff—just a small one, but suddenly all he could picture was Jaskier, cast out and alone, crying but desperately trying to keep quiet. His eyes flew open, and Jaskier scrambled backwards, bringing an arm up to frantically swipe away the tears still falling.

“Sorry—didn’t mean to wake you,” he choked out.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, not even knowing what to say next, but wanting desperately to fix what he’d broken.

“It’s fine, I’ll be off your hands soon, don’t worry.”

“Jaskier, that’s not—you don’t have to do that,” Geralt ground out, eyes fixated on the ground so that he didn’t have to face Jaskier's distress.

“Clearly I do. You can’t even _look_ at me,” Jaskier sobbed.

Geralt’s head flew up, gold eyes meeting blue, and his heart, had it not already been broken, would have splintered further at the pain there. It was the despair of someone backed into a corner with no way out, and _knowing_ it, and yet still not quite able to accept it.

“Just let me go already, Geralt,” he begged. “Don’t draw this out.”

“Jaskier, no. You don’t have to go—I only wanted you to be safe.”

Jaskier scoffed wetly. “You don’t have to pretend you care.”

“ _I do care,_ Jaskier, I promise I do. It—it pains me, to think of anything happening to you. I truly thought you would be safer without me.”

Jaskier’s shoulders lowered a little, from where they were hiked up around his ears. Good. Geralt continued, “I don’t want you gone. I just want what’s best for you. It would be selfish to try and keep you, if I thought you would be better off elsewhere.”

“But you can’t make that decision for me,” Jaskier finally said, and something inside of Geralt eased at knowing he’d gotten through to him, at least a little. “Don’t try to drive me away because you think it’s better. I get to make my own decisions. So unless you really, truly want me gone, please. Don’t say things like that.”

“If it keeps you safe—”

“No,” Jaskier cut him off. “This has to be all or nothing, Geralt. Either you let me make my own decisions or you let me leave now.”

“But if you die because of me—I can’t have that on my conscience. Not again.”

“What do you mean, not again?” Fuck.

 _Nothing,_ Geralt wanted to say, because some wounds cut too deep, never healed properly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly. “What does that mean?”

Geralt pressed his lips into a thin line, looking down at the ground. “There was… a woman. Renfri. She… she trusted me, and I let her down, and she died. And it was my fault.” There. Short, succinct, but the truth was out now, and Jaskier would finally know why Geralt was so dangerous. Would finally accept that he had to leave, for his own safety, even if it would kill both of them in the end.

“Look at me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, still in that infinitely soft voice. Geralt dared to look up, expecting nothing but recrimination in Jaskier’s eyes.

Worse: it was _forgiveness,_ which he in no way deserved, which wasn’t Jaskier’s to give. It was Renfri’s, but she never could, because she was dead, and it was his fault.

“Even if it was your fault—which, knowing you, I doubt it actually was—that doesn’t mean I’ll meet the same fate.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. Because everything I do is my own choice, my own actions, my own fault. Okay? Starting now, I am completely absolving you of any blame involving my person, forever.”

Geralt shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that—”

“I say it does. So, here’s our new deal: I travel with you, and in return, we both accept that our actions are our own, entirely and completely, and we both promise that neither of us will take blame for anything but our own actions. Deal?”

Geralt grit his teeth. He’d never met anyone so damn _stubborn_ as Jaskier. “Fine. But if I tell you to go, you _go._ No more of this running headfirst into danger bullshit. You have to protect yourself.”

“I can promise I’ll try,” Jaskier offered. “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

They shook on it; Geralt didn’t know why, but something about it felt inexorably right, like a puzzle piece sliding into place, and at the same time, desperately wrong, like he was signing a death warrant.

* * *

They left the caravan and its suspicious inhabitants behind them, following the rising sun towards Vizima. Along the way, Geralt took the opportunity to give Jaskier more self-defense lessons, including lessons with a small switchblade he’d procured and subsequently gifted to him.

“It’s for me?” Jaskier asked, eyes wide as he took in the ornate handle, the tip of the blade polished to a gleaming point. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s dangerous,” Geralt corrected him.

“Sometimes things can be beautiful and dangerous at the same time,” Jaskier said, looking at Geralt through hooded eyelashes, voice laced with meaning, though Geralt couldn’t parse what meaning. He ignored it and continued with the lesson, also ignoring how his stomach fluttered whenever he had to press an arm along Jaskier’s to correct his stance, or whenever Jaskier bit his lip in concentration, or whenever he perfectly executed a move.

In the weeks that passed as they made their way to Vizima, Jaskier got better and better, until Geralt was confident he could hold his own in a fight, and could teach him no more. It felt like one more thing to say goodbye to—now that he no longer needed Geralt to protect him, it was like he was slipping further out of Geralt’s fingers with every passing moment.

The longer it went on, the less Geralt wanted to confront it, but eventually he was forced to face the facts: he cared about Jaskier. He—dare he even think it—might even be in _love_ with him, if the way his stomach kept swooping was any indication. That, and the fact that he found himself distracted thinking about Jaskier's body, his face, his lips, all added up to rather damning evidence that he was in deep.

Knowing so and saying so turned out to be two different things entirely, however. Every time he thought he might work up the courage to say something, he found himself backing out, making excuses, putting it off.

They were one day out from Vizima when Jaskier solved his problem for him. “Geralt, I’m cold,” he announced when they lay down for the night, shivering dramatically.

Geralt looked over, concern filling his mind—had Jaskier gotten sick? Were his clothes not doing the job? He’d never complained about the cold since they’d left Cintra—

“There’s only one solution, I’m afraid,” Jaskier continued, shaking his head sadly. “We’ll have to huddle for warmth.”

Geralt threw him an unimpressed look. What was he playing at?

“You wouldn’t want me to catch cold, would you?” Jaskier asked, putting on his most pathetic face and scooting even closer to Geralt. “It would be a shame after coming all this way.”

“Yes, awful shame,” Geralt answered, half on autopilot, holding an arm up. Jaskier immediately burrowed into his side, warm body pressed all up against Geralt’s.

“Oh, much better,” Jaskier sighed, melting into a boneless puddle. Geralt let his arm fall again, resting against Jaskier’s back, lightly stroking up and down. They sat in silence for a bit, just enjoying each other’s company, Jaskier on the verge of sleep.

“This is nice,” he mumbled.

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. He didn’t want to think about how soon, Jaskier would leave him, would settle in Vizima, and Geralt would go back to walking the wastes alone, with only the memory of this moment to keep him warm at night. “Jaskier…” he said, but trailed off. Did he have the courage to say it?

“Hm?” asked Jaskier, shifting to blink sleepily up at Geralt.

“Don’t go,” he begged, then immediately regretted it. _Selfish._ Who was he to deny Jaskier the safety of a settlement, the very thing he’d promised so long ago to help him find? And for what—all so he could drag Jaskier into danger behind him? Just because he was so pathetic as to actually believe he was in love?

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, but nothing more. Geralt felt his heart break.

“I’m sorry. That was stupid. Forget I said that.” He made as if to pull away, but Jaskier surprised him by clinging closer.

“No, wait! I actually wanted to talk to you about this,” Jaskier said, then took a deep breath. “What if—what if you stayed?”

Geralt stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“What if when we get to Vizima, you stay, even just for a bit? Maybe—maybe until I get my feet under me, at least. I mean, I don’t even know _how_ to settle down. Everything I remember has been—well, it’s been you, mostly. And I just—I would really feel better if I had you there, and I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but—something about being with you feels _right.”_

“Jaskier,” Geralt said numbly. “I can’t—”

“Right, I’m sorry, sorry I asked—”

“No, it isn’t that. I—I would, in a heartbeat, I would for you, Jaskier. But there are still monsters to hunt, and humans aren’t welcoming to witchers on the best of days. It’s going to be hard enough to convince them to let you in, let alone me,” he explained miserably.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, sounding so wretched he could cry.

“And this is so selfish of me to ask, but. You could stay with me, traveling. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Geralt, I—I _can’t,”_ Jaskier answered, despairing. “It’s—I would, I want to, but—there’s something inside me that _needs_ to have a place to stay, somewhere to just—rest, and be safe, and…”

“I understand,” Geralt said woodenly, because he did, he understood that urge to have someplace to call home—it’d been a long time since he’d stayed in one place longer than a few nights. But it still hurt to hear, to know that they were apparently destined to be apart.

“Why don’t we just—for tonight, can we pretend?” Jaskier whispered. “Pretend like this could be something?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can pretend,” Geralt responded, pulling him closer. Maybe if he held on tight enough, he wouldn’t have to let go.

* * *

Vizima was nothing more than a crater, pockmarked and blackened, a pile of rubble and ash that drifted through the air, turning everything into haze.

“What happened here?” Jaskier asked, frozen in horror. Geralt feels sick down to his very bones. There was only one thing he knew could do this.

“The White Flame. They must have purged the town.”

“But—but the entire place? How many—” he broke off, pressing a shaking fist to his mouth.

“I don’t know. Hundreds,” Geralt answered, emotionless. If he let himself think about it, think about how many times he’d walked these streets, how many people had begun to recognize him and nod in passing—

He needed to be the strong one here, because Jaskier was looking fainter by the second, one wrong move away from throwing up or passing out and Geralt really needed to get the both of them out of here _now._

“Come on. We’re sitting ducks out here,” he said, crouching next to Jaskier and offering a hand to pull him to his feet. Jaskier went numbly, following Geralt along like a child as he led him by the hand, until they reached an outcropping of rock that provided them with some cover.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he could do to help—was barely hanging on by a thread himself, in fact. Jaskier sank down and put his head between his knees, and Geralt paced around him, feeling like a rabid dog on a leash.

“How could they do this?” Jaskier asked dully, after who-even-knew-how-long. “How can they—why hasn’t someone _stopped it?”_

“There’s not much you can do against an army of superpowered robots that can seamlessly blend in,” Geralt snapped. “It’s always too late by the time anyone notices. _If_ they even do.”

“But there must be _something—”_

“There isn’t! It’s shit, Jaskier, it’s complete fucking shit, and we can’t even do anything about it!” Geralt yelled, knowing he was only making the situation worse, but unable to stop the torrent coming out of his mouth. “You think we haven’t tried? You think I haven’t had this conversation before, hundreds of times?”

Jaskier only looked at him with helpless fury in his eyes. Geralt broke first, ducking his head, unable to bear the brunt of that pained gaze for any longer. He sat down heavily, and felt a hand come to rest on his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier ventured.

“No, I’m sorry,” Geralt sighed. “It just gets to me sometimes.”

“I can imagine. Did you… know anybody?”

Geralt shook his head. “Not really. Just—faces, in passing, that’s all.”

“Sorry. Must be hard.”

He fell silent, both of them collecting themselves from the shock of that massive blow. Finally, when Geralt felt less like lashing out, he stood, and Jaskier stood too, and together, they kept walking.

* * *

“It’s almost like the universe wants us to stay together,” Jaskier joked, once Vizima was nothing more than a distant wound whose pain they could forget if they didn’t think about it too hard. He’d been trying, lately, to keep their spirits up, a responsibility he apparently took very seriously. Geralt couldn’t deny that he’d certainly made the loss easier to bear—the two of them shared the burden of remembrance, and propped each other up when the weight became too much to bear.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, in the most neutral tone he could muster. He didn’t like to put much stock into higher powers, but he did have to admit that it was unusual how many coincidences had led to Jaskier coming into and staying in his life.

“Next thing you know, a tsunami will hit Novigrad, and we’ll have to keep going until we reach the edge of the world,” Jaskier continued, kicking idly at a rock as they went. He’d made an almost-game out of it, but Geralt couldn’t discern the rules.

“We’re not going to Novigrad,” Geralt commented absently, trying to navigate by the sun. he could’ve sworn they’d been heading straight north, but the sun told him they were actually heading slightly west, towards—

“Oh? Then where are you leading me, witcher?”

“Fuck. I was aiming for Tretogor, but we’re too far west. We’re closer to Blaviken than anything else.”

“Ooh, sounds nice. I hope it’s coastal.”

“It’s not,” Geralt growled.

“Not coastal? Oh, well. Can’t win them all, I suppose—”

“No, it isn’t nice. Furthest thing from, in fact.”

“Oof, must be pretty terrible if _you’re_ complaining about it. What is it, then? Beds made of radioactive goop? Haunted by the ghosts of howlers past? Everyone smells really, really terrible?”

“The people,” Geralt grunted. “They’re… not welcoming of outsiders.”

“Ah,” Jaskier nodded sagely, as if he understood. “Not likely to have much luck there, then, are we?”

“No.” He didn’t mention Renfri, or the way he’d been driven out of town five years ago, or the pervading hatred of witchers that had only been fanned by the flames of the moniker Butcher of Blaviken.

“Better to just avoid it altogether, I suppose,” Jaskier suggested. “Where to, then? I don’t suppose we can backtrack to Tretogor?”

“It would be a week’s journey, or more. We don’t have the supplies to last that long.”

“Well, fuck.”

“There’s one more settlement I know of nearby—Creyden. The surrounding lands are all heavily ghoul-infested, though. We’d have to take the main roads, which pass through Blaviken anyway,” Geralt explained.

“It doesn’t sound like we have any other choice,” Jaskier observed.

“Not really, no.”

“Then Creyden-via-Blaviken it is, I suppose. Lead the way.”

They continued towards Blaviken, and when they stopped for lunch, Geralt took stock of their supplies. Enough for perhaps three meals each. It would be tight, but as long as nothing went wrong, they would make it to Creyden before they starved.

* * *

Things went wrong.

They were in sight of Blaviken—could make out houses and smoke rising from fires and people walking about the market—barely a hundred paces from the main gates. Geralt turned around to ask Jaskier something, he didn’t even remember what.

The moment he turned his back, he heard a distant gunshot, and then his shoulder was burning with pain. He dropped to the ground, clasping a hand to it, feeling hot blood pump out over his fingers.

“Geralt!” Jaskier screamed, raising his baseball bat and rushing forwards, just as Geralt pushed himself back to his feet and whirled around to see a group of androids bearing down on them.

“Fuck!” he cursed, stumbling backwards and frantically trying to unsheathe his machete. It was too late to get his rifle loaded and aimed; one of the androids was already upon them, and the best Geralt could do was swing wildly, hacking at deceptively sturdy limbs, narrowly avoiding gunfire from the rest of the pack.

Jaskier himself was also swinging wildly, bashing in metal faces with every hit. But even with the two of them combined, it wasn’t enough. Jaskier cried out as a bullet sank into the meat of his arm; Geralt was there in a second, hacking off the guilty android’s head, but the damage was done.

“Fuck,” hissed Jaskier, clasping his hand to the wound. He wouldn’t be able to fight like this, and they both knew it.

“Jaskier, you have to go,” shouted Geralt, as he danced around him, fending off androids left and right. He was tiring quickly; there were simply too many. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he realized that the best he could hope for was to send Jaskier away relatively unscathed, and to hold the androids off for long enough for him to get to safety.

“I can’t leave you!” Jaskier shouted back, even as he stumbled away from synthetic hands reaching for his neck.

“Jaskier!” he yelled, but then it was too much, and he was falling to the ground under the remaining three androids, feeling bone crack between powerful blows, flesh bruising and splitting. He flailed his machete wildly, felt two of them fall away, hopefully for good.

Just one more, but Geralt was going to lose this fight, he could tell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gates of Blaviken open, heard Jaskier shouting for help. Good; at least he would survive, would find help, if the townspeople didn’t attack him on sight.

But he couldn’t spare any more attention to Jaskier; it would have to be enough to hope, to believe that he would be safe. Blood streaming into his eyes, he caught the android by the neck and _wrenched_ with the last of his strength _._ It fell still in his arms, and he slumped backwards. It was over.

As the world grew dark around him, he turned his thoughts to Jaskier. He would be safe now.


	2. Chapter 2

When the androids attacked, Jaskier was filled with sheer panic for a good thirty seconds. It felt like an eternity before his brain rebooted and he sprung into action, screaming Geralt’s name and shouldering the bat he carried with him everywhere. Every thought in his mind screamed  _ protect Geralt,  _ and he launched himself at the nearest android, rage overtaking his mind.

How  _ dare  _ they hurt Geralt? Good, noble, kind, Geralt, who went out of his way to help strangers, who deserved far more than the horrid treatment humans gave him?

He was glad to have the fight to focus his rage on. He bashed in robotic limbs left and right, reveling in the chaos. Until he felt a bullet sink into his arm, like a punch with ten times the force, burning as it burrowed in. He cried out, clasping his free hand to the wound, bleeding sluggishly.

“Jaskier, you have to go!” he heard Geralt shout, but fuck that.

“I can’t leave you!” he protested, and dodged as a particularly brave android lunged for him. But even as he argued, he knew that Geralt was right; they couldn’t win this fight alone.

He made a split-second decision and dropped his bat, sprinting for Blaviken with everything he had, shouting pleas for help as he went. If he could just get their help, he could save them both.

The gates opened as he approached, groaning their displeasure at admitting an outsider in. He was so close, he just had to—reach—

Everything seemed to catch up to him at once—the bullet wound, his exhaustion, various aches and pains that he hadn’t even noticed during the fight, but which were screaming at him as he slowed, then collapsed. “Help,” he croaked, blinking rapidly, trying to push himself up, but managing nothing more than a twitch of fingers.

_ I’m sorry, Geralt. I tried. _

Vaguely, past the whirring in his brain, he thought he heard footsteps running—they were approaching, and then passing him. “Help,” he pleaded again, not knowing whether he meant for himself or for Geralt.

There was the sound of a brief struggle—a clang of metal on metal, a gunshot, and then silence. Jaskier wanted so badly to lift his head, to see what was going on, if the androids were dead, if the humans had found Geralt—but all he could manage was focusing and unfocusing his eyes, tuft-of-grass to dusty-horizon, dusty-horizon to tuft-of-grass.

“Help,” he breathed out, quiet enough that he could barely hear it. Everything was silent, then, even the wind that usually blew over the plains dying down.

And then he heard it—footsteps coming back towards him. “Son, are you alright?” someone asked, crouching down beside him. All Jaskier could see was a pair of brown trousers kneeling in the dirt. “He’s hurt bad,” the stranger said to someone else, placing a hand on his shoulder and tugging until he flopped over. He wheezed.

“Get him inside,” ordered another voice, older, wise-sounding.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped out. “Help him.”

“Geralt? Who’s Geralt?” asked the first voice.

“The mutant out there. You must have seen his corpse, yes?” answered the old man. “He’s known for killing humans. Quite feral, in fact. This one—” Jaskier felt a toe nudge his side, “—is lucky he escaped with his life, if he was attacked by that monster.”

_ No,  _ Jaskier wanted to scream,  _ no, you’ve got it all wrong, he saved me. I have to save him.  _ All he could manage was shaking his head back and forth, rolling it around in the dirt.

“You can’t mean—the Butcher?” gasped the first voice. Then, to Jaskier, “Don’t worry, son, you’re safe now. We’ll take care of you, make sure he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“No,” breathed Jaskier. “No, help—”

“Alright, get him inside before he bleeds out,” ordered the old man, and Jaskier regretted ever thinking of him as wise. Why couldn’t he just  _ listen  _ to what Jaskier was trying to say? Geralt was no butcher, nor had he ever harmed Jaskier—and right now, he was very likely  _ dying  _ and needed help!

Strong, tanned hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him up. He struggled, weak, but with everything he had. It was no match for the stranger’s strong hands, which easily pulled him into a restraining hold, and lifted him up.

It put pressure on the bullet wound, taking his breath away with the force of the pain that struck him. He panted, going limp, squeezing his eyes shut. “There we go,” the stranger soothed, though Jaskier felt anything but. “Relax, you’re safe now. We won’t hurt you.”

_ No, no, no, this is all wrong,  _ he screamed in his mind. All that came out of his mouth was a high-pitched whine.

The stranger holding him picked up his pace, jostling Jaskier’s wounds terribly, and his vision was going spotty at the edges when he was finally laid down on a cot.

“Hold him down,” ordered the old man, impassive, and those same strong hands gripped his forearms tightly. “This will hurt. He may scream.”

And then the pain in his arm ratcheted up about ten thousand percent, because someone was _digging_ _around in there, what the fuck, get out!_

He was screaming, he realized, not actual words, just one long deafening shriek. He ran out of air eventually, his breath stuttering in his chest, and he fell into voiceless sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we need to get the bullet out,” the stranger was saying. And then the fingers retreated, though the pain was still throbbing through him, stealing his every thought. “Is it done?”

“The bullet is out, but there’s something odd about his bones. I’ll need to take a closer look after I clean the wounds and stop the bleeding,” said the old man. Jaskier heard metal rattling, the sound of something being set down, and then liquid sloshing. “Keep him still.”

The old man poured whatever it was on his arm, and it was like liquid fire shooting straight to his core. He swore he saw sparks out of the corner of his eyes, just before his vision flickered alarmingly and went dark.

\--

Jaskier woke some indeterminate time later, no longer in indescribable pain. That was his first thought—how much better he felt, though his arm was still sore when he made any sort of movement, and it was difficult to keep his eyes open.

His second thought was  _ Geralt Geralt Geralt help him! _

He shot out of the cot he was lying in like a puppet yanked upwards by strings—and then immediately collapsed to the floor, only narrowly avoiding braining himself on the table at his bedside.

He forced himself up to sitting just as he heard footsteps come running into the room. “Shit. What are you doing up?” he asked, and Jaskier recognized the voice as the stranger who had carried him and then held him down. “Come on, back in bed, now.”

“No,” Jaskier said, struggling to push himself to his feet. He had to brace against the cot to do it, but he managed, albeit slowly. “Have to… help… Geralt.”

The stranger, who had been striding forwards, either to help Jaskier up or push back down on the cot, froze in place. “Geralt? The witcher who attacked you?”

“He didn’t attack me!” Jaskier burst. “It was the androids.”

“Okay, it was the androids. But he’s still a killer—and dead, besides.”

No! Geralt couldn’t be dead. Jaskier not only wouldn’t accept it, but also knew that though things were certainly grim, Geralt still had a chance at survival thanks to his mutations. But only if he could get help.

Jaskier lurched forward, intending on pushing past the stranger, right out of Blaviken. But strong arms stopped him before he could take three steps, both restraining and supporting.

“Hey! You need to rest. Stregobor said you almost died,” warned the stranger.

“No, I need Geralt! He can still—”

“Stregobor!” the stranger interrupted, shouting. “He’s being uncooperative. Might need to sedate him.”

The old man from before—Stregobor, apparently—came striding in, frowning. Jaskier struggled harder. Though he might have saved Jaskier’s life, Stregobor looked like he’d prefer if Jaskier had died. “You ungrateful little wretch,” he spat. “We just saved your life, and now you’re throwing it away again on some mutant?”

“He’s more human than you know! Do you know how many lives he’s saved?” Jaskier demanded.

“It could never be enough to match how many lives he’s taken,” Stregobor sneered.

“No. No, that’s not true,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. “I appreciate you saving me, I do, but now I need to go save him.” He yanked himself from the stranger’s firm grip, nearly falling to the floor as he did, but stumbled and managed to regain his balance.

The stranger chased after him as he darted out the door into bright sunlight. Jaskier looked back to see Stregobor following too, brandishing a syringe, presumably the sedative that had been mentioned. Jaskier couldn’t let that happen; Geralt was running out of time.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him; unfortunately, it wasn’t all that fast, what with how weak he still was, and he tripped as he was tackled to the rough earth. He cried out as his wounds made impact, felt them start bleeding again, but paid them no mind otherwise. The only thing that mattered was Geralt.

He kicked out, felt his foot connect with the body on top of his, heard a sharp gasp. But the stranger didn’t let him go, and Stregobor was almost upon them with that syringe. “No! Help!” Jaskier shouted, as if anyone would come to his defense. “Let me go!”

“I’m sorry!” yelled the stranger, wrestling with him. “We can’t let you leave!”

“I have to! I have to—I love him! Please!” he begged, freeing an arm and trying to literally drag himself out of Blaviken. It was quickly recaptured, and he was left squirming underneath the stranger’s body.

It was hopeless. Stregobor had caught up by now, and yanked Jaskier’s sleeve up to reveal his veins. _“NO!”_ Jaskier roared, and it was like a switch flipped inside of him. A high-pitched static noise filled his mind, and his skin was burning hot with fury. The stranger on top of him yelped and let go, his skin red and blistered wherever it had touched Jaskier’s, which gave Jaskier the chance to roll away from them both, springing to his feet.

“I said  _ don’t touch me _ _!”_ he yelled, seeing red—literally, as if the entire world had been dipped in blood. He looked around at the small crowd that had gathered, all of them looking at him with undisguised fear and revulsion on their faces.

“His  _ eyes—”  _ someone gasped, and Stregobor sneered.

“I should have known. Only an android would pretend to care about a mutant. You’re both freaks,” he spat. “Incapable of any shred of humanity.”

Jaskier was so far past anger he couldn’t even think of a response. That high-pitched static noise was still there, growing louder, turning into a droning whine that drowned everything else out. There was only anger, and thoughts of Geralt.

“Get out of our town, synth!” he heard someone shout, and felt a dull impact in his back, like someone had thrown something at him. More followed, until he was driven to his knees, vision sparking at the edges.  _ Get up. Have to help Geralt. Get up. _

A warning message flashed in his right eye: SYSTEM OVERHEAT. SHUTDOWN IN 30. 29. 28…

_ No!  _ But he was helpless to do anything but bear the brunt of the hatred of Blaviken, paralyzed under the onslaught.

“Throw him out!” someone yelled, and the volley of projectiles stopped, only for multiple sets of hands to replace them, pulling, grabbing. He felt himself being lifted—he was helpless to stop it as the countdown ticked closer to zero—and they carried him past the gates, down the road, dumping him in the pile of bodies on the hill outside.  _ Geralt! _

Then they retreated, leaving him for dead—leaving them both for dead. With the very last of his strength, Jaskier dragged himself on top of Geralt’s body. He could feel the witcher’s chest moving under him with every weak inhale—still alive, for now. Still breathing. 10. 9. 8.

_ I’m sorry, Geralt. Sorry I couldn’t save you, sorry I couldn’t repay you after you did so much for me.  _ 5\. 4. 3.

He couldn’t even give Geralt a proper burial.

2.

At least they would die together.

1.


	3. Chapter 3

[](https://ibb.co/bF7mQDc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> image description:   
> a black screen with white text. the text reads:   
> SYSTEM REBOOT.  
> INITIALIZING…  
> System v3.0.2. White Flame Enterprises copyright 2077.
> 
> [UI Information Suite] starting… Success!  
> Initializing User Interface…  
> Commence startup? [Y/N]  
> \-----------------------------------  
> > Y  
> Checking…  
> \-----------------------------------  
> Power Levels: good  
> RAM: good  
> Memory: 256 TB free  
> Processor: good  
> \-----------------------------------  
> Initializing…  
> Done!  
> System Restart in 3… 2… 1…


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier blinked his eyes open to see a dark stone ceiling above him. Had he found himself inside a tomb? He could feel a soft surface beneath his body, the softest surface he could remember ever feeling, including during his time in the City of the Golden Tower.

Wait. What?

Jaskier shot upright, ignoring the way his system screamed warnings at him.  _ Don’t overheat again, you’ll damage your processor,  _ he reminded himself, like it was natural to do so.

_ What the fuck.  _ He remembered—not only Blaviken almost dying,  _ Geralt,  _ but everything before that, too: booting up for the first time in Nilfgaard, the City of the Golden Tower. Being introduced to his fellow White Flame members—androids, all of them, him included. Training with them, learning how to fight, how to survive, how to imitate humans so closely as to be indistinguishable.

_ You’re a chosen one of the Golden Sun,  _ they’d told him, meaning his status as a third-generation. He remembered the almost-religious fervor with which they’d all worshipped the Emperor, the Golden Sun, remembered swearing his service to the White Flame.

Remembered submitting to the memory erase as part of his mission. Even the third-gens were fallible, their programming surfacing at inopportune times, wrecking their ability to camouflage as human. So he’d submitted to the memory wipe, one of only five who had been chosen, and all of them had been sent out into the world thinking they were human. Sleeper agents.

And it had worked—as soon as he’d found himself among humans, his programming had taken over again. He shuddered, remembering the homicidal rage that had overtaken him in Blaviken. If he hadn’t been so badly damaged, he might have wiped out the entire town. He knew he was capable of it—knew the damage these synthetic hands could do, had done.

And if he hadn’t been so focused on Geralt at the time— _ Geralt! _

He vaulted out of bed, eerily reminded of the way he’d woken up in Blaviken. This time, though, he felt much better—all of the damage he had sustained in the attack and subsequent stoning had been repaired, and the blinking stats in the corner of his vision showed that the only danger he was in was of possibly overheating again from trying to process too much.

He staggered as he stood, but stayed upright, and immediately strode over to the heavy iron door set into the opposite wall. It remained stubbornly closed as he tugged at it, and when he switched his vision over to x-ray—which he could apparently do now, had always been able to do, but only when he remembered—he saw that there was a thick bolt locking it in place.

He also saw the shape of a woman sitting in a chair on the other side of the door, and when she heard him yanking at it, she got up and stood in front of it.

“You’re finally awake. How do you feel?” she asked.

“Where am I? Where’s Geralt?” he shouted, resisting the urge to kick at the door like a child having a tantrum.

“Geralt’s safe. You both are, as long as you don’t do anything stupid. I’ve enabled your combat inhibitor, so don’t bother trying anything. If you promise to cooperate, I’ll let you out,” she said coolly.

As soon as she said it, he knew it was true—he tried to muster up anger and found that the subroutine was blocked. Just for fun, he gave into the urge to kick the door, but his foot stubbornly refused to move. Great.

“I’ll cooperate,” he promised.  _ As if I have any other choice. _

“Good.” He heard the bolt sliding into place, and then the door swung open with a massive groan. Behind it was standing a woman with raven-black hair and violet eyes. Another mutant, like Geralt? But she didn’t seem to be a witcher…

“You never said. Where am I? And who are you?” he asked suspiciously, but still stepped out of the room and followed her, presumably towards Geralt.  _ Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. _

“Yennefer of Vengerberg, head of the Lodge. You’re at our headquarters in Redania.”

“The Lodge?”

She waved a hand at him. “I’ll explain once we’re there. I’m not having this discussion twice.”

Jaskier pouted, but refrained from asking any more questions as she led him into a wide hall with vaulted ceilings and a massive wooden table in the middle. There were plenty of other people in the room, some clustered around the table, some tapping away at keyboards in front of old computer screens, some lying asleep in cots scattered around the edges of the room.

“Welcome to the Lodge,” Yennefer announced. “Everyone, this is Jaskier, a potential recruit.”

Jaskier’s head whipped around. Recruit?

Yennefer continued. “Our mission is to stop the White Flame. If you have a problem with that,” she said, turning to Jaskier now, “it would be wise to tell us now.”

“I—I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I just want to see Geralt. Please. Then you can carry on with your—your exposition, here.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, but Jaskier could see a small smile gracing her lips. “Yes, yes, your boyfriend has been very worried about you too. He’s over here,” she said, indicating a cot in the corner with a curtain pulled in front of it.

Jaskier rushed over, but stopped short of pulling the curtain back. He couldn’t stop picturing Geralt lying on the ground, pale and wounded, dead to the world. What if—he didn’t even want to finish that thought.

He took a deep breath and pulled the curtain back, bracing himself for the worst. But there lay Geralt, still pale, still wounded, but  _ blessedly alive.  _ Jaskier just stood for a moment watching his chest rise up and down, peaceful in sleep, brow not creased by pain or fear.

As if he sensed Jaskier watching him, he shifted, eyes snapping open, and tried to sit up. Yennefer was there in a second, pushing him none-too-gently back down. “Lie still, you idiot,” she snapped. “If you tear those stitches again I swear I’ll—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped, lying back down, but reaching out towards Jaskier, who was still frozen in place. “I thought you would be safe—I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you—”

“That’s enough of that,” Jaskier said firmly, trying to ignore the way his eyes were tearing up. He unstuck himself and sat down gingerly on the cot, careful not to jostle Geralt. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. I should never have left you alone in the first place.”

Geralt shook his head. “No, you did the right thing, going to get help.”

“Yeah, fat lot of good it was.” (I should have just stayed)

“That isn’t your fault.” Then he smiled, tired, but genuine. “Told you we should have skipped Blaviken.”

Jaskier giggled, and it was like a dam breaking. He laughed, hunching over Geralt, and at some point, it turned to crying, tears dripping down his nose to land on Geralt’s bandaged torso. Geralt tentatively laid a hand on his back, stroking up and down, until Jaskier could calm himself down.

He sat up and sniffed, wiping his cheeks clean of tear tracks, then turned to Yennefer, who was watching him with barely-disguised discomfort.

“She saved us both,” Geralt explained.

“And not a moment too soon, either. You’re lucky I came by when I did.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, clearing his throat. “Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s my job,” she replied. “Anything we can do to upset the White Flame.”

“You never explained,” Geralt grunted. “What do you have against them? Besides the obvious.”

“You mean, besides the fact that they want to kill everyone? Oh, not much,” she answered. “But if you’re asking why me, well, I got tired of hiding. Someone needed to stand up to them. So I founded the Lodge, and we help the White Flame’s victims—and that includes you,” she said, turning to Jaskier. “You’re just as much a victim as anyone else, and I don’t mean only for that attack.”

“What do you mean, then?” Jaskier asked.

“Think about it. You’re as good as human, right? You’ve got emotions and wants and rights, just like anyone else. Did the White Flame ever give you the dignity of choice? Or give you anything, besides a near-suicidal mission and a mindwipe?”

“…I suppose not, no.”

“That’s what the Lodge does. Helps the White Flame’s victims, whether they’re humans under attack or androids who wish to defect.”

“A noble pursuit,” Geralt interjected, the tracest amount of sarcasm in his tone. “How many have defected before? Two? Maybe three?”

“Two or three hundred, sure,” Yen fired back. “But unlike our enemies, we don’t press anyone into service. The only androids here are those that want to be. Speaking of, Jaskier, congratulations on probably the most dramatic defection we’ve ever seen. Top marks. The red eyes truly are the most over-the-top thing, aren’t they?” she said, waving a hand at Jaskier’s face. He blinked in surprise.

“Red eyes? What does that mean?”

“It means look in a mirror. You couldn’t be any more obviously rogue if you tried.”

“She’s right,” said Geralt. “It’s kind of hot, to be honest.” He smirked.

Jaskier hit him (lightly, Geralt was still healing, after all) on the arm. “Oh, shut up.”

“Anyways, I’m sorry to say it, but you can’t blend in with humans anymore. Either they’d kill you for being too inhuman, or the White Flame would find you and kill you for being too human.”

“What are you proposing?” Geralt grunted. “Get to the point.”

“You sign on with us. I don’t want to take away your choice, but it seems like you’ve already done that for yourself. With our resources, we can keep you hidden, protected.”

“I can protect him just fine,” Geralt growled.

“Oh, because you did so well in Blaviken?” Yennefer snapped, then sighed. “It’s the smart thing to do and you know it,” she said, softer now.

“She’s right,” Jaskier admitted with a grimace. “I remember now—the White Flame will stop at nothing to find me. Not only am I an expensive feat of engineering—” he preened for a moment, “—but I have insider knowledge about them. They’d sooner burn down their own city before allowing any compromising information to get out. And,” he said, looking at Yennefer, “I’m guessing you’ve already pulled it from my brain when you went digging around in there?”

She raised one inscrutable eyebrow, smirking slightly.

“That’s a yes, then,” Jaskier decided. “Anyways, as much as I admire your witchery skills, the best place for me is here. Besides, I can help out here and finally do something with my life, instead of being a clueless pawn.”

Geralt grimaced. It seemed he still wasn’t convinced.

“Could you give us a minute to talk about it?” Jaskier asked Yennefer, who nodded and left them alone for the first time since waking up in the Lodge. “Geralt? What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Geralt sighed. “I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted. “But it seems like that’s happening either way.”

“You're not losing me, Geralt. I’ll still be here,” Jaskier said desperately, though his heart was breaking at the all-consuming sadness on Geralt’s face.

“I wish… I wish this had never happened. I knew I was going to lose you some way or another, but I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been.”

“Neither was I. I,” he broke off, biting at his lip. “I was scared to say it, before, but Geralt, I. I think I love you.”

Geralt’s gold eyes widened. “Jaskier,” he said helplessly, but nothing else. Jaskier’s heart felt like it would burst from emotion.

“You don’t have to say it back, but. I thought you should know,” Jaskier continued desperately. “And—and if this is goodbye, then I want you to know that I always will. You were the first person I ever met—the best person I ever met. And I don’t mean to make this any harder than it is, but. I needed to say it. So that you know how much you mean to me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, looking completely lost for words. Then, to Jaskier’s surprise, his face hardened with resolve. “I love you too,” he returned, expression almost constipated with it. “And I won’t let this be the end. You—you  _ changed  _ me, Jaskier, for the better. Before I met you, I had lost all hope in humanity—in decency, in kindness.

“So if you’re staying, I’m staying too. The Path can do without me for a bit. And it’s like taking down a different kind of monster, anyways.”

Jaskier’s eyes grew blurry with tears. “You mean it?” he choked out. “I—I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duty…”

Geralt shrugged. “There’re other witchers who can handle the standard stuff. Besides, I’ve been walking the Path for fifty years. I damn well deserve a vacation.”

Jaskier gave a watery laugh, then leaned in to pull Geralt into a tight hug, mindful of his injuries. Geralt returned it, warm arms wrapping themselves around Jaskier’s back, and buried his face in Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier let his tears fall freely, releasing all the stress and fear and joy of the last few days.

They stayed that way for some time, just embracing, before a sharp cough from Yennefer broke them reluctantly apart.

“How sweet,” she deadpanned. “Jaskier, I need an answer. The other members are getting restless.”

“I’ll stay and help the cause,” he announced. She smiled proudly at him, and he grinned right back.

“I’ll sign up too,” Geralt said. “I’m not letting this one out of my sight for a good long while.” There was nothing but determination on his face.

“Can’t say we’ve ever had a witcher in our ranks before,” Yennefer mused. “I won’t turn down the help, though. Now, first things first, you’ll need to fill out personnel files…” she said, and then rattled off a list of other things that would be necessary for their induction.

Whatever it was, Jaskier and Geralt would do it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! 
> 
> also, find me on tumblr [here](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com)!


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